


The Lost Pages

by quills_at_dawn



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Missing Scene, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11101554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn
Summary: ."I am Haytham Kenway, first Grand Master of the Templar Order's fledgling Colonial Rite, and as I feign to heed the words of my righthand man, Charles Lee, I observe the newest addition to our Order as he talks with Christopher Gist, his first mate, and Jack Weeks.".___________________________________________________Why does Haytham never mention Shay in his diary? What might he have said about him if he had?The events of Rogue and their effects on the relationship between Haytham and Shay from Haytham's POV.





	1. P | Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Story, characters, everything belongs to Ubisoft.
> 
> If you haven't finished the game, there be *SPOILERS*.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monro's hypothetical last letter to Haytham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game!

**_*The Morrigan, River Valley, August 1757*_ **

_Dear Haytham,_

 

_As much as I hope to speak to you in person once again, I am already writing on borrowed time and when faced with death a man clearly sees the truth of what he must do._

_Of course you can and must circulate the included Letter of Recommendation to all you deem fit but there are a few things concerning Shay Cormac that I think should stay a matter of private record between us._

_You will have heard of the ruin and carnage that was the Siege of Fort William Henry. The French, I think, are not to blame in this instance and I am trying to make my peace with it though I fear William Johnson never will._

_Before leaving for the fort, I sent you a letter concerning my newest recruit, Shay Patrick Cormac. All I wrote still stands but as you will see I owe it to him, to you, to the Order and to myself, to tell you all that has happened since to supplement the more general reports you will no doubt receive._

_When I wrote my last letter to you I also sent one to Shay Cormac along with the Manuscript, which I have failed to interpret. I could think of no better person to keep it safe and time has proved me right. I also felt it important to tell him that we have always known of his origins and accept him regardless, lest he think himself alone and adrift with me gone. At the time I felt that with this and my letter to you I had done all I could for him. Now I see I must do more._

_As per the terms agreed upon with General Montcalm, we were allowed to leave Fort William Henry with our weapons - but no ammunition - and with our colours. However, on leaving the fort, the column was set upon by the French’s native allies. Having survived the siege against improbable odds I seemed fated to perish at the hands of the natives._

_Upon receiving my letter, however, Shay Cormac had traveled to the Fort, arriving in time to personally escort what was left of my men and myself to his ship, which then bore us to safety. In doing so he hoped to repay me not only for having saved his life but for having given him a chance to right the wrongs of his former ways. He not only risked his life in the moment but was sighted by a man named Kesegowaase, one of Achilles Davenport’s Assassins and a former instructor of his, who was leading the Abenaki in their raid. So now the Assassins know that Shay Cormac still lives._

_While his survival had remained secret my power was enough to protect him but no longer and I must at least try to help him. The debt repaid is more than the debt owed since I risked nothing to save his life and he risked all to save mine._

_You have always had a quick eye for potential and I am sure that when you meet Shay you will see how much of it he has. He has such goodness in him and it gives him the conviction to do what he must. He has weighed the greater and lesser evils, has seen the balance and has sided with us, irrevocably. He is keen and intelligent, with a natural instinct for dealing with others, and his brush with death has taught him to see past petty scruples to what lies beyond, as they have me. The devotion he has inspired in his friends and crewmen is second only to the the loyalty he has shown me._

_Achilles Davenport, it seems, mistrusted him, disregarded his sayings, kept things from him and never took the time to educate him. These are not the ways of our Order and, from the start, Shay Cormac has responded well to the trust and absolute freedom I have given him in the tasks and missions he has carried out for me. As Fate would have it, it is to these same freedom and trust that I now owe my life._

_He does not yet understand the inner workings of Politics, Economics and War but he has a quick, eager mind and is easily taught. Despite this lack of education he already sees further than Wardrop or even Lawrence Washington ever did. Yes, I think given the right chance and guidance he could outshine us all._

_What he has done for me and for the Order for my sake should be considered enough to earn his inclusion in it. Even if you do not think so, Haytham, do it for my sake, that I may die knowing I have repaid my debt to Shay and served our Order to the fullest of my ability._

_I commit my life to the British Army and my soul to the Father of Understanding._  
_Yours,_

 

_Col. George Monro_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Fort William Henry sits on Lake George and was built by William Johnson.


	2. 01 | Induction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham and Kenway's first meeting at Fort Arsenal for Shay's induction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming to stick with canon but haven't read the books so there could be discrepancies. 
> 
> Again, if you haven't finished the game, be warned, *SPOILERS* ahead.

**_*Fort Arsenal, Greenwich, New York, 1758*_ **

 

I am Haytham Kenway, first Grand Master of the Templar Order's fledgling Colonial Rite, and as I feign to heed the words of my righthand man, Charles Lee, I observe the newest addition to our Order as he talks with Christopher Gist, his first mate, and Jack Weeks. 

His induction is my first action as Grand Master since my return to the Colonies after a three-year absence on personal business in Europe. The ceremony was carried out with even more solemnity, discretion and alacrity than usual, overshadowed as it was by the death of one of the Order’s most esteemed members, whose funeral took place just a few of months ago. Colonel George Monro was a British Templar, as I am, and would have been Grand Master before me if Reginald Birch, my mentor and one of the Order’s ruling Nine, had not thought it more diplomatic to respect the Colonial Templars’ existing hierarchy.

I’ve barely had a moment with the newcomer and outside of what Monro wrote to me in his letters I know almost nothing of Shay Patrick Cormac.

Just twenty-six years old, born in New York to Irish immigrants, orphaned at sixteen, a dissolute life until he was taken in by Achilles Davenport, Mentor to the Colonial Assassins.

And there the trail ended, only to be picked up again when Monro found the boy marooned, shot in the back and left for dead, recognised him for the Assassin he was and took him to the home of some friends, the Finnegans, to convalesce. William Johnson’s howls of rage reached me from across the Atlantic.

Both Johnson and Charles Lee objected to Cormac joining the Order. After all, before his sudden and unexpected conversion to our ideals he dealt the Order a terrible blow by personally killing our three highest-ranking officers here in the Colonies - Lawrence Washington, Samuel Smith and James Wardrop. We all eventually agreed that his background as an Assassin and his known _faits d’armes_  on top of Monro’s recommendation make him an interesting and useful addition.

And though it remains unspoken, I think we all see that any other course of action would be awkward. The only reason we had a body to bury was because Cormac pulled the mortally wounded Colonel out of a burning building near Fort Frederick at the peril of his own life - the second time he risked his own life to save the Colonel’s. I did not need to put a Templar ring on Shay Cormac’s finger as I did for Charles because Cormac already had a ring, given to him by George Monro as he lay dying. Cormac is finally alone so, after nodding my dismissal to Charles, I follow him to a quiet spot in the garden.

“Shay Cormac, I hear you are the Templar’s new don of Precursor archeology.”

As he turns into the sunlight I take my first good look at him. Dark hair and eyes, clear complexion, regular features and cheekbones that make him look almost savage - as does the scar over his right brow and cheek. I’m considered an attractive man but Shay Cormac must turn even more heads than I.

“I’m no expert, sir. I just witnessed what the Assassins can do with those damned sites.”

Despite the anger that permeates them, the pleasant voice and accent are as easy on the ears as the face is on the eyes.

I pull my Precursor amulet out from under my shirt and show it to him.

“I have spent years investigating Precursor leads. Tell me what you’ve seen.”

As I start to walk, hands clasped behind my back as is my custom, he falls into step with me.

“Well, I know both the Assassins and Templars are looking for Pieces of Eden. Powerful weapons, mind-controllin’ Apples… But this time it’s different. We haven’t found an apple, but… a tree.”

The boy has a talent for imagery. I have more knowledge than most about Precursor sites and artefacts, I’ve studied them longer, and at his words some of the pieces fall into place.

“These temples hold the earth together like roots. Disturb them and Haiti falls. Or… Lisbon. Or any other place the Manuscript shows.”

He is so expressive - he talks with his hands, his face, his entire being, and he is so caught up in his idea that he stops walking and I notice the change in him as he mentions Lisbon.

“And the Assassins are blindly interfering with these structures?”

“Aye. And if we don’t stop them, they’ll continue destroying cities.”

“I see…”

A precious addition indeed. He carries within him all he’s learnt from the Assassins, his training and knowledge are second only to mine, not to mention that he’s the captain of an armed brig. To me he is already more important and valuable than Charles.

“We have intelligence of Assassin activity near Louisbourg fortress. We’ll be meeting with a Royal Navy officer, James Cook. He recently gained a commission that could be strategically valuable. Gist has the charts.”

“Very well, I’ll depart shortly.”

As he turns to leave I reach out and stop just short of touching his arm to detain him. I’m not sure why. I could have done so with just a word.

“Colonel Monro spoke highly of you, Shay. He was convinced you could become the best among us. I expect you will not disappoint.”

“I don’t plan to, sir.”

His expression hardens when I mentioned George Monro and he speaks with determination but I can see it is a front, like a child trying not to cry. The hurt of Monro’s death is still fresh.

I turn and walk away. Just a few minutes with him and I have gone a long way to discovering what I want to know about him and begin to see how much more there is to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: A "fait d'armes" is a successful action (usually in a military context). Here it is used in the plural as a euphemism for Shay's decimation of the Order's upper management.


	3. 02 | Louisbourg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A debrief after the battle at Louisbourg gives Haytham and Shay a chance to get to know other better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, *SPOILERS* for anyone who hasn't finished the game. 
> 
> From here on there will be less literal retelling and more extrapolation. Enjoy!

_***HMS Pembroke, Louisbourg, North Atlantic, June 1758*** _

 

“There’s the Navy! We’ve cleared the way just in time, Captain Cormac!”

A cry goes up as the British fleet fires its first volley of mortarfire on the French ships our small outfit has succeeded in holding at bay.

“The tide of war is turning!”

“That was quite the crack, wasn’t it?”

Ah, the chattering optimism of youth.

“It is too soon for celebrations. Adéwalé is still out there.”

“I’m sure we’ll get another turn to dance with him, Master Kenway.”

Impudent brat.

They're not wrong, of course. The notorious Assassin, Adéwalé, has troubled the Order for decades but he’s barely a brushstroke in a far bigger picture. Winning Louisbourg may turn the tide of war.

We bid our farewells to Captain Cook and I’m soon at the desk in the captain’s cabin on the _Morrigan_  from where I can hear the bustle outside as the crewmen make the final preparations for our return to New York. Shay and Gist are talking about me, apparently having forgotten that I’m sitting just under their feet and can hear them.

I had brought with me a late crop of despatches that I only now have time to read and they tell me a little more about the _Morrigan_ ’s Captain.

I learn from the Finnegans that Shay was brought to them severely concussed, with cuts and bruises, broken ribs and a fissured tibia, and that the scar that fails to mar his face was still a fresh wound, probably acquired at the same time as the bullet wound. He was scruffy-looking and unkept but since his recovery he’s been clean-shaven and well-groomed. They say he was always polite though he’s acquired more poise - they presume through the Colonel’s influence. They’re glad he has stayed so near and visits them often, Fort Arsenal being just a stone’s throw from their home. They have nothing but good and fond things to say of him.

This is a constant. Gist, who has not left his side since they met, paints Shay as easygoing and a skilled fighter, a firm but kind captain to his crew. And though they could have been introduced in very different circumstances, Weeks has forgiven all and swears the boy’s loyalty to the Colonel is stronger than death. Even Johnson is warming to him. Charles Lee, however… Though they behaved with perfect civility when they met I know they haven’t taken to each other. I do not understand it but fortunately it should not be hard to keep them apart.

A knock and I look up to see the man himself in the doorway.

“Master Kenway, we’re ready to set sail.”

I nod and he disappears.

Yes, they all seem to have adopted him. The Finnegans’ son had been dead just over a year when Shay fell into his place - his family, George Monro, Gist. Even the dead boy’s clothes fit him like a glove.

Shay still wears them, having refused my offer to have new ones made up. He was, however, forced to accept the deep crimson coat I’d already had made. He wears it under his outer coat and thankfully it covers most of the waistcoat. How anyone thinks a buff waistcoat framed by a black coat is a good idea for someone in our line of work I will never understand. One may as well paint a target over one’s chest and be done with it.

Turning back to my pile of despatches I open one from the late Colonel’s aide-de-camp. Albany was crawling with Redcoats the day the Colonel died and I now have it on good authority that while the Colonel’s last words were about the Manuscript, the very last word he uttered was ‘Shay’. And his last action to give him the ring that marked him as a Templar. A ring Shay has worn ever since.

I lean back as I drop the letter onto the desk.

Few can resist that roguish charm. Even Captain Cook was so taken that he offered Shay the wheel of his man'o'war and the glory of thwarting the French not five minutes after Shay had first set foot aboard _HMS Pembroke_ , whose command Cook has only just received.

What does it say about Charles Lee that he dislikes Shay? I myself am not immune. I have already started to indulge him in small ways, never reminding him to call me ‘sir’, allowing him to make decisions for the group in my presence and to have the last word. I know instinctively that he will never intentionally challenge my authority or do anything to undermine it.

Another knock.

“Dinner, Master Kenway.”

“Have them bring yours too, Shay, I’d like a word.”

“Of course, sir.”

I clear the desk as I wait, mildly curious about what kind of food I’ll be getting. It soon arrives in the form of thick, hearty venison and carrot stew, crusty bread, a side of exactly two leaves of something green, and two apples.

Shay soon arrives and as he settles I take a moment to look him over.

He’s clearly been on deck, the biting wind has stolen the colour from his face and swept it all onto the high ridge of his cheeks.

He sits there waiting, so I motion for him to start.

“How are you, Shay? The last few months must have been trying and I’m afraid I’m not sparing you.”

“Do you mean… the Colonel’s death?”

“Yes, and Kesegowaase’s. I understand he was your teacher.”

“Ah, aye.”

He actually blinks. I believe he has not spared one thought for the former mentor he first disfigured then killed and his next words confirm it.

“Kesegowaase was the one who held me back so Liam could… get the Manuscript...”

“I understand.”

I observe him a moment.

“Tell me about your time with the Assassins, Shay.”

He shakes his head and I see a hint of bitterness.

“I was never trusted with anything important until…”

“Until Lisbon.”

“How did you…?”

“Educated guess.”

“I was only sent because I knew the exact place the map showed. I’d been to that convent before.”

A convent. I see.

“So… You were in Lisbon…”

He only nods.

I almost cannot believe it. Opposite me sits a man who has not only found but entered a Precursor Site. Generations have come and gone without one of these sites being disturbed. Of course I know what happened in Lisbon, the ripples reached as far as the English shores I’d been on. Only sheer luck can account for Shay having survived.

“And that’s why you took the Manuscript.”

Suddenly the anger flares up again. That’s his volatile Irish temperament showing.

“Stole it! From Achilles.”

“Is that when you were shot?”

“Aye, they cornered me on a cliff. I was about to jump, I was ready to take the Manuscript to the bottom of the ocean with me, but I was shot by a man who was like a brother to me. Who should have been with me in Lisbon but wasn’t.”

Liam O’Brien. The same who had brought Shay into the Assassin fold. And who killed George Monro. Achilles’ favourite.

“Then Colonel Monro found me, spared me, and took me to the Finnegans.”

I say nothing. I wonder how many times he’s stared death in the eyes and as I watch his calm returns.

“May I ask if you possess what the Assassins call Eagle Vision?”

This surprises him.

“You know about that?”

“I’m not Grand Master for nothing, Shay.”

He nods slowly.

“Aye, I do. Sometimes I think it’s the only reason they kept me.”

Yes, even among the Assassins that second sight is a prized ability. Even more so among us Templars, making Shay all the more precious to us, and in particular to myself.

“May I ask, sir, do you really think we’ll be able to track down Adéwalé?”

“I’m sure of it.”

I pause, eyeing him.

“Someone else can take care of him if-.”

“No, I’ll do it, sir.”

I sigh inwardly at the interruption and the way he makes ‘sir’ sound like an afterthought.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The British had organised an expedition to take Louisbourg the previous year but that one was a fail - a footnote fail.


	4. 03 | Adéwalé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shay overheard some surprising things during Haytham's fight with Adéwalé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

_***The Morrigan, Vielle Carrière, River Valley, 1758*** _

 

As I’m about to step down into the captain’s cabin, Shay clears his throat, hands clutching the helm.

“Should I have dinner with you tonight, Master Kenway?”

“As you like, Captain Cormac.”

Well, this is bold. Shay was trying to sound courteous but his voice went up half an octave the way it always does when he’s being less than absolutely forthcoming. I suppose I should have expected it. He must have a thousand questions for me after overhearing my conversation with Adéwalé and besides I’d intended to ask him to dine with me. Adéwalé’s death left an impression and I want to ensure it’s not a damaging one.

I wonder exactly how much he overheard.

Looking back at the day’s events I realise I risked Shay today. He volunteered to run reconnaissance and I allowed it. I wanted to test him, to see if he was as good as advertised, idiotically not foreseeing that he might actually find Adéwalé himself, which of course he did. I know now that Adéwalé, a strong and seasoned Assassin, is no match for Shay but had I known at the time that Shay would run into him I would not have sent him - certainly not alone. Yes, I risked Shay today. I should have accompanied him on that first run he made as I did in the second. Fortunately, he’s safe and I now have a much truer idea of his abilities.

Before Shay, I would have seen to the chore of killing Adéwalé myself, alone, but having Shay there almost made it a pleasure. Adéwalé is dead and there is not a scratch on either of us. I hadn’t enjoyed doing what I must do as much in a long time. Not since Ziio. Shay has the same instincts, the same stealth, the same quick intuition about what I need and want. He is like my own shadow, never far and able to do everything I can. When I stand in the light he stands by me, and when I move into the shadows he melts into an even greater darkness.

This elation must have been part of the reason I touched him. He stood there, staring at Adéwalé’s dead body, fascinated and horrified by what he’d done, shaken by what the man had said to him as he died. But I touched his shoulder and bid him follow me and away he came without a second’s hesitation.

Dinner is brought in. Pumpkin soup, roast turkey, potatoes, and two apples.

Shay appears, looking his usual self but I saw enough at Adéwalé’s death to know better. Shay _feels_  more than anyone I’ve ever met. Charles Lee has a blind faith in our Order’s creed, William Johnson has adopted it because it mirrors his inborn sense of universal order and it is in line with his own pursuits. But Shay questions every step he takes. In this he is most like me though I do not overburden my conscience as he does.

We sit down to eat and I wait. I’m willing to answer his questions but I’m not going to make things easy. Even so, it doesn’t take long.

“Did you know Adéwalé, sir?”

“I knew _of_  him. He was my father’s quartermaster for a time when he was in the West Indies.”

“Adéwalé? Your father’s quartermaster?”

I resist the urge to make a quip about an echo and instead answer quite seriously.

“Yes, my father was a pirate.”

After this he forgets to eat for fully five minutes.

I give him all the time he needs as I finish my soup.

“Was your father… an Assassin?”

“He was.”

He may never finish this meal.

“Were you ever an Assassin, sir?”

Again, the afterthought.

“No, I never formally became one. My past is not a state secret, Shay, hasn’t anybody told you these things?”

“Gist mentioned your father was an Assassin but I… didn’t believe him.”

Another long silence.

“Do you have Eagle Vision too? Is that how you know about it?”

“I do and it is. But _that_  the others do not know about.”

I look at his plate significantly and he resumes eating, albeit almost unconsciously.

“Did _you_  know Adéwalé, Shay?”

“I… I saw him once at the Homestead. I… overheard him telling Achilles about Haiti. The Assassin mentor there, Mackandal, had just sent one of his men to a precursor site when the earthquake hit…”

His hands tremble and I wonder if he’s reliving the terror he must have felt during the earthquake in Lisbon or his rage at Achilles for blindly sending him there and wreaking such destruction when he should have known better. It takes him a long moment to compose himself enough to continue.

“We never spoke but Liam once said Adéwalé was a living incarnation of the Creed. I didn’t understand what he meant, not really. When he left the Homestead I stood on a cliff and watched him sail away. I knew the _Experto Crede_ was filled with food and supplies for those poor people in Haiti. I felt proud to be an Assassin. What I knew of Adéwalé was what Liam told me and it wasn’t much. I know more now.”

He pauses and when the familiar haunted look passes into his eyes I know what to expect.

“Wasn’t ’til I met the Colonel that I understood. To me, Colonel Monro was a living incarnation of our creed.”

He pauses then looks at me quickly, eyes widening.

“As are you, sir, but I hadn’t met you yet.”

Better late than never, I suppose.

He falls silent, eating slowly and without pleasure. Monro has been dead almost a year yet time seems not to have dulled the pain at all.

I know all about Adéwalé and his exploits and can imagine what Shay might think of them. I wonder, would it help or hurt him to realise it was Adéwalé’s fight to free the slave population and help the Maroon resistance in Port-au-Prince that paved the way for François Mackandal’s rise? Which would weigh more in the balance? The hundreds Adéwalé freed from slavery or the thousands killed by the earthquake? An earthquake caused by Mackandal’s man on his orders after they located the Site using the Percursor Box Adéwalé stole from the Templars.

Since meeting Monro, Shay has shown an uncanny talent for making money and accumulating it despite his generosity. He is now a wealthy man though you wouldn’t know it from his manner. He hasn’t acquired that air of entitlement I’m accused of having. He’ll never forget what it was like to be the common man. And while he firmly believes in the need for order, he seems to have endless understanding for the ‘little people’ who do what they must to survive.

Suddenly I have an even deeper appreciation for George Monro who was able to start reconciling all these irreconcilable things in Shay’s mind.

“George Monro was a good man. And so was Adéwalé.”

Shay looks up at me and his dark eyes seem suddenly guileless and vulnerable.

“Do you really believe that, sir?”

“Of course. So would Achilles be if he weren’t so misguided and blind. You don’t need me to tell you that sometimes good men make the wrong choices, believe the wrong things, trust the wrong people, all with the best intentions.”

He lowers his gaze again at this. He is thinking of Lisbon.

“We all make mistakes.”

He looks at me in silence, eyes searching.

“I heard you say that blessing or curse, you are your own man.”

“I believe that. Should I follow a path I don’t believe in simply because it is the one my father set me on? I don’t let others decide right or wrong, I take responsibility for all my actions and decisions, and I accept all their consequences. As do you, I think.”

There is so much darkness in his eyes as he looks into mine. He’s clinging to me and for a moment I fear we’ll both drown.

“And as far as I’m concerned, Shay, you are a windfall. I’m sure George Monro felt the same.”

I move on to lighter topics for the rest of the meal. Shay’s had a hard day and I’ve extracted as much as I can of Adéwalé’s poison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: In AC IV: Freedom Cry, Adéwalé finds the wreck of the Jackdaw. In AC: Rogue we watch the wreck of the Experto Crede. What does this prove? That the people at Ubisoft are heartless.


	5. 04 | Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Shay sleeps off the effects of Hope's poison, Haytham considers their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

_***East Village, New York, October 1759*** _

 

My shadow approaches as I pin a ruffian against a wall to extract information on Hope Jensen’s whereabouts.

“Where is your boss?”

“I’ll never tell! She’ll kill me!”

Shay leans against the wall lightly, his mouth curving into the faintest of smiles.

“If you don’t tell, _he’ll_  kill you.”

And this said so cajolingly, as though he’s trying to convince the man to stay for another round of drinks.

“She’s in that big mansion, the one with the gardens.”

Hmm.

No more expeditious solution springs to mind so with a flick of my wrist I bury my hidden blade in the man's jugular.

“Shall we go?”

As I saunter off, killing a few gang members on the way, I feel my shadow following a step behind, swift and silent.

“You didn’t mention you had a hidden blade.”

I am in good spirits and can’t resist teasing him.

“You thought you were the only one?”

“Well, yes, I suppose… Where did you get that?”

“It was donated by the Brotherhood.”

“I see…”

He does see - oh yes, he sees exactly. After our dance with Adéwalé he knows what I’m capable of. Takes one to know one, I suppose.

“Our mission was a success. The army should make its move soon.”

“Good. Now let us cut off the snake’s head.”

We get to the barricade and we’ve barely been apprised of the situation before he’s off again, volunteering to kill Hope Jensen himself.

I give my assent as a matter of course but as usual Shay hasn’t waited for it. His independence is both mildly irritating and a relief.

Gist, Weeks and I are waiting at Fort Arsenal when he returns deep in the night looking more dead than alive. The Assassin woman poisoned him and he only found enough of the antidote on her to make it back - it won't save him.

I have the best doctor in the city sent for and tell Gist and Weeks to walk with Shay around the property until he arrives. He must keep moving or his heart will stop.

Helping him is beneath the Grand Master's dignity so I stay inside. We've received reports that the city is in chaos since in trying to slow Shay's pursuit that wretched woman threw down poison bombs, affecting scores of the townsfolk. Just in case, I send another runner to the doctor to make it clear to him that he’s to come here first. Shay is the priority. Losing him would be too great a blow.

Within the hour the doctor has come and gone and when I check in on Shay I find him sleeping soundly, no doubt both physically and emotionally drained. The doctor says his heart has suffered a great strain but that there won’t be any permanent damage.

I haven’t had a chance to speak with him and gauge what consequences killing Hope Jensen may have had on him. I want to stay but have urgent business in Boston to attend to and have already made arrangements to leave from here after an early meal.

I pull up the only chair in the room and sit down to observe my underling. He’s paler than usual but his breathing is easy and he looks peaceful. In sleep he looks so young and vulnerable and suddenly I feel ancient though in fact I’m only six years older than he is and just entering my prime. When he’s my age he’ll have laughter lines around his eyes and, paradoxically, a deep crease between his brows. By now all the city’s taverns are familiar with the stern-looking sea captain with the scar over one eye. Will he have started to go grey as I have?

I wanted my position as Grand Master and did everything necessary to achieve it but it is neither easy nor reposeful. I must constantly manage Johnson’s susceptibilities, avoid tripping over Charles Lee, keep Thomas Hickey relatively sober, avoid arguing with Benjamin Church, and though they all advise me ultimately the task of making decisions for the Rite must fall to me. After which I must persuade or force these same men to do as I bid. No surprise that I’ve remained in the field, often finding it more efficient and expedient to take matters into my own hands when I can’t trust any of the others to do the job as well as I can.

Now I have Shay who brings me better intelligence than any of the others and more quickly, who does what I ask well and without question.

Will he even live to be my age? Once in the storm that killed his father, once in Lisbon, once at Achilles’ homestead, twice protecting Monro and now this. For all his talk of making his own luck, the boy is using up his nine lives fairly quickly. Are these narrow escapes mere occupational hazards or are we being careless with his life?

A knock at the door and Jack’s voice informs me my breakfast is ready.

I step out and find it laid out on the coffee table in the front room as I asked. I thank Jack and the men and they leave.

Once alone, I take out a locked despatch case and retrieve from a hidden fold the Colonel’s letter of recommendation and all the letters he sent me mentioning Shay. I am rarely curious about people but after all this time I am still curious about Shay Patrick Cormac and have been since I read the Colonel’s letters, long before I’d ever set eyes on the boy.

I carry these letters everywhere with me - I don’t know why. I don’t need to, of course, and I’ve read them so often every word is engraved in my mind. And yet I do. There is a mystery in them that I still haven't unraveled and I often pull them out to study them, as if I could find the key just by staring at the paper and ink.

Seeing Shay laying asleep I wondered what he looked like when Monro found him. Did George feel hope or horror when he first saw Shay in the dead boy’s clothes?

For all my scrutinising those letters I still do not know what prompted Monro to take such a risk. Retrieve the Manuscript, by all means, but why save the boy? What I do know is that the Finnegans’ son, the one Monro had been mentoring so closely and who died before reaching the age Shay is now, was a lot like Shay. Young, passionate, energetic, handsome, Irish.

I think of my own complicity with Shay. He understands my humour, is unruffled by my sarcasm, his flippancy lifts my mood but he knows when to be serious, and he is gentle when I must be hard.

By now I have spent more time with Shay than George Monro ever did - in fact, George has been dead longer than Shay ever knew him. And yet there’s a distance between Shay and I, and I start to see that its contours resemble those of the colonel.

I eat my breakfast and as dawn breaks I consider waking Shay, if only for a moment, before I leave, but when I look in on him he’s still sleeping and I cannot bring myself to do it. My business in Boston should not take long, I hope to be back in New York soon. I’ll let him rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I will never understand how Hope got her hands on the mansion and how it could ever have been considered a *discreet* HQ. However, I love the idea of assassin trainees pruning the rose hedges.


	6. 05 | Careless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

**_*Fort Arsenal, Greenwich, New York, October 1759*_ **

“Are you awake, Shay?”

Gist is at the door of the bedroom projecting towards the invalid in a preposterous stage whisper.

From behind him I can just see Shay shift, groaning softly. His eyes open and go to the secretary desk in the corner of the room by the window, over which the sun casts long shadows.

“So late already? What time is it?”

“Time to eat!”

“I haven’t _eaten_  anything in three days, Gist.”

Shay sits up, groaning softly at the pain from his fractured ribs, as one of the deckhands comes in and sets down a tray bearing a bowl of chicken broth and an apple on the nightstand.

“Doctor’s orders, captain.”

Guilt lies just beneath Gist’s usual joviality.

“There is another thing… Master Kenway is here.”

“What-?! I thought I said-.”

“Your friends did not betray you, Master Cormac.”

As I step in I see his face fall at the sight of me for the first time since we met.

“Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll take it from here.”

I nod, dismissing both Gist and the deckhand.

When we’re alone I start to wander about the room, hands behind my back, leaving Shay to his simple meal, finally stopping before a painting.

“Master Kenway, how did you…?”

“I’m holding a meeting here in New York in a few weeks - William Johnson will be there and you remember Charles Lee? Kenway House is being overhauled in preparation and with all the noise I just cannot seem to get any work done.”

I pause and cast a sidelong glance at him just in time to see his brows furrow slightly. The mansion we recently acquired from Hope Jensen should have gone to him but he insisted I take it, claiming he prefers to stay at Fort Arsenal, near the _Morrigan_. No doubt this is true, at least in part, and having the mansion suits me. The Order and I need a base of operations in the city and Kenway House, as it is now known, is perfect. Tucked away behind high walls in East Village, in the sparsely-populated northern part of the city, just a stone's throw from the militarised HQ in King's Farm, it is eminently defensible. Fort Arsenal and the _Morrigan_  too are within easy distance and now virtually impenetrable.

I turn my attention back to the painting.

“Since I’d often heard from Masters Gist and Weeks that your home is always open to friends, I arrived yesterday evening hoping to beg asylum. Gist told me you were out only _moments_  before the doctor stepped out of your room and informed us you were sleeping and not to be disturbed. So you see, your friends are not to blame.”

“Ah, I see. Of course you’re welcome to stay, sir.”

“Thank you. I commandeered one of your bedrooms and your front room while you were sleeping.”

Leaving the painting I go over to a window.

“I see you have your crew carrying out some home improvements here too.”

The place could certainly use a few. Fort Arsenal is a curious place. Take this room, for instance. The wallpaper, the floors and most of the furniture need to be completely replaced, but the walls are hung with some fine paintings and the worn floorboards are all but hidden by a small fortune in carpets and elk skins. Shay's _descente de lit_  is an immaculate polar bear pelt, and piled at the foot of his bed is a throw made from Arctic wolf pelts. The _Morrigan_  is always in the best possible condition.

“Aye. When men are restless they can start all kinds of troubles. Those with families nearby I sent home, the rest I put to work here. If they’re botherin’ you I can ask them to stop, sir.”

“No, no. You’re right. Best not to let the men stay idle.”

_Clever._

Shay comes from a modest background, he has not been trained and taught the way Charles, William, George Monro and I were. He has come such a long way. He has had the _Morrigan_  for seven years and under his care she has become the most powerful warship of her size while he himself is now a captain respected even by the likes of James Cook. His interest in the war and his general thirst for knowledge are evident in the books that cover most available surfaces at Fort Arsenal, often three deep - a collection I have made numerous contributions to. During our time on the _Morrigan_ , I took the opportunity to talk to him about his readings, checking his understanding of them and explaining and enlarging on the ideas in them, answering all his questions. George was right, Shay has a quick mind and he’s a pleasure to teach. Inventive, multitalented, a gentle leader but a leader of men nonetheless.

As Shay slowly sips his soup I turn my attention to the painting over the fireplace. It depicts a naval scene and must be a favourite of his as another, larger copy of it hangs opposite the desk in the front room. A mounted elk head hangs above the fireplace in the same room, one of Shay’s many trophies. Somehow all his interests come together harmoniously without any obvious attempt at a theme.

“You have a beautiful home. When you’re back on your feet you’ll have to show me around and tell me about the things you’ve collected here.”

“I will.”

I turn my head fractionally as he nods then reaches over to set his bowl down, grimacing again as this disturbs his three cracked ribs. The same ribs he broke when he was crushed under a table in a crumbling house while fleeing Lisbon, the same ribs he broke again in his fall at the Davenport homestead.

“I’m curious as to why you felt the need to keep your condition secret.”

“I…”

He falls silent. I have never seen such reticence in him.

“What happened, Shay? Gist mentioned an ambush but _claims_  he doesn’t know the particulars.”

Shay sighs, already giving in.

“He doesn’t. And he only lied to you because I asked him to. Don’t hold it against him, sir.”

“Fine. But why did you ask him to, Shay?”

“I was embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“I was careless, that’s all. And I… didn’t want to disappoint you.”

This again. His books, his drive, his volunteering for dangerous tasks, they are all for this. And I still wonder if it really is for the sake of his own pride. Isn’t the real root of his fear the fact that in disappointing me he would fail George Monro?

“You’ve never disappointed me yet.”

“Hope I never will.”

I don’t want him to fall into one of his introspective moods because he’ll close up and I want get to the bottom of this.

I pull up the chair and settle into it, making it clear I intend to stay.

“So, you were ambushed. Where?”

“Not far from here. I had intercepted a carrier pigeon with the name of an assassination target, a time and place. But when I went there was nobody to defend. Just seven assassins.”

“Seven? I’ve seen you fight twice as many and come away unharmed. Careless indeed. Or did it have something to do with the gash on your thigh that the doctor is convinced you sustained the same day?”

I can practically hear him mentally cursing the doctor. I make myself frown sternly.

“I’ve already been lied to once in this matter, Shay, I’ll not be lied to again.”

Shay sighs, dropping back against his pillow tiredly.

“I did get it earlier that day.”

“Where?”

“Up in Stuyvesant’s Farm.”

“And? Out with it, Shay, I tire of this game.”

“I went up to check in on the HQ there and stopped by the marketplace. One of my old deckhands took a bullet to the knee so he couldn’t stay with the _Morrigan_. He plays the flute for the crowd at the market - all the crew’s favourite shanties. I stop by to see him whenever I’m there.”

“And give him money.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course not.”

“Two Assassins came for me there. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary and yet you were injured.”

“I won’t make excuses.”

“I know, why must you be so touchy? So you were already injured when you walked into that ambush.”

“Like I said, I was careless. Careless at the market, careless in not seeing I was being set up, and careless for taking on more than I could handle.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Shay. And here I thought you were keeping secrets so as not to worry me.”

This surprises him.

“Would you have? Worried, I mean.”

“Of course. I’m not heartless.”

I brush an invisible speck of dust off my coat sleeve.

“And as it happens, I feel that in this instance _I_ was careless.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“You neutralised the leader of the Assassins’ New York network. I should have foreseen you would be at even greater risk than before, that all the city’s thugs and Assassins, now scattered and leaderless, would have nothing to focus on but revenge. I should have protected you, or at the very least cautioned you.”

I had Hope Jensen’s body left in a place I knew they would find her, as a warning, but Shay does not know this.

“I shouldn’t need cautioning.”

“Good grief, boy! Even _I_ don’t hold myself to such high standards!”

I stand.

“Our talk has upset you and you need your rest. I’ll have someone pick up your tray and bring you something for the pain. I’ll be at your desk, just call if you want anything, I’ll hear you.”

“Thank you, Master Kenway.”

A quick bow and I let myself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The flute player is real. As is the fiddler in the marketplace near Fort Arsenal and the other near one of the southern taverns. They play instrumental versions of the shanties in AC IV: Black Flag. The street performers in AC: Syndicate also play shanties.


	7. 06 | Anniversaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham goes sneaking to try to find out what's on Shay's mind after Hope's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

_***Fort Arsenal, Greenwich, New York, October 1759*** _

 

_Shipped on board a whaler_

_— Shallow, oh, Shallow Brown._

 

I catch myself humming along with the men under my breath even though I made a conscious decision, after my first half hour aboard the _Morrigan_ , to never listen to the shanties.

The mournful choice of song tells me that it must be getting close to evening and sure enough through the tall windows I can see the outlines of the crewmen against the fading light as they go about their business, singing as they always do while they work.

The flute player Shay mentioned and a fiddler arrived over the course of the afternoon and have thankfully added to the men’s repertoire. I take it word of Shay’s injury is spreading and wonder if the Assassins draw any satisfaction at all from having sacrificed at least seven of theirs to painfully but not dangerously injure Shay.

Standing, I decide to take a stroll to admire the sunset and stretch my legs.

I like it here at Fort Arsenal. The Italian-style gardens around the old fort are similar to those at the mansion but with a simpler elegance - Shay’s comfortable nest.  
The mansion has a never-ending series of enfiladed gardens, each one overflowing with flowery gazebos, arches and trellises, several fountains and even a small pond fed by the waters of the lake the estate is build on, let in through a handsome watergate at the rear of the property. To the east of that lake there are rabbits and to the west foxes for sport and the neo-classical villa is second to none in city. The perfect place for the Grand Master I am to entertain important guests in. But while the mansion’s exterior and gardens were in near perfect condition, Hope Jensen modified the interior to suit her own purposes, turning it into a kind of elaborate deathtrap. It needs a complete overhaul, inner walls smashed and rebuilt, the floors redone, the gas pipes re-engineered so they don’t emit noxious fumes. I had taken refuge in one of the guesthouses in the garden but even from there the noise was unbearable.

As I step back into the fort I am told that Shay is asleep again after having woken and eaten briefly while I was out. The doctor keeps him heavily sedated - for the pain and also in the hope he will move less and not hurt himself further.

I take another look at the room between the front room and the bedroom, which is both armoury and cabinet of curiosities. The far wall is covered in no fewer than eighteen sword and dagger sets, while a gun rack holds ten pairs of pistols - among which are some Belgian engraved pistols of exceptional beauty. In one corner I see what looks to be an armour of native make, with reinforcements in the shape of eagle wingtips stitched onto the front and back of the plastron, and I make a mental note to ask Shay about it. In the opposite corner, in a glass case, stands an oriental uniform - one of the many treasures scattered about the room, brought back by his ships. These same ships carry my letters to correspondents all over the world, particularly useful now that I seem to have become my late mentor’s _de facto_  replacement as a clearinghouse for Templar business. In another glass case is an exquisite model of _HMS Pembroke_ , a memento from the much smitten Captain Cook.

My dinner is brought and after eating it I get back to work. I don’t look up again until I’ve penned the last of a mountain of dispatches and letters and the house has been quiet for hours. Then my heightened senses pick up some sounds and so I stand, make my way to the bedroom and quietly let myself in.

Shay’s discomfort seems only mild so my attention shifts to the secretary desk. It has just one locked drawer which I now pick and open easily. Inside is the letter from George Monro, written just before his departure for Fort William Henry and what he thought was certain death, in which he admits to having known of Shay’s identity as an Assassin from the start and entrusting him with the Manuscript they had found on him.

I read it over a few times before replacing it, committing it to memory as I have the others.

Of course, Monro didn’t die at Fort William Henry. His Oneida allies were captured, Johnson’s reinforcements held up, but Shay swooped in and saved him in a move that revealed him to his Assassin brothers. He has been on their most wanted list ever since. Life for life, Shay should have considered his debt to the colonel repaid but it is clear that even now he does not. There's the small matter of the second chance he's been given and there is no telling when Shay will consider _that_  debt settled.  
I could have asked Shay all of this directly. The boy is incapable of disobeying me and still hasn’t the first notion of how to lie to me convincingly, each lie revealing more than a truth ever could. But I don’t want him to think I am prying. Especially when the information can be obtained with such ease and discretion by other means.

“Colonel!”

That’s Shay calling out in his sleep. He seems in greater distress now and I quickly go to him.

“Shay, it’s Haytham. You’re safe.”

I don’t want to wake him but I worry he’ll injure himself if he moves.

There are sedatives on the side table and I know the doctor’s instructions are to administer them as their effect wears off but I hesitate. His pain does not seem physical so much as mental.

“There, there, you’re all right.”

“I’m sorry about the colonel. It’s my fault he died.”

He’s still sleeping, he’s not feverish, he does not seem to be having a nightmare so for a moment I wonder what this is.

“It wasn't your fault, Shay.”

“It is! I made him angry. He wanted to give me the Manuscript but I told him to keep it. That’s why they-! Why he-! I should have kept it as he asked! I have to get it back. I promised!”

He’s getting agitated. I pull up the chair and when I place a hand on his forehead he stills instantly.

“It wasn’t his time.”

Barely a whimper.

“All of them… Innocent. All dead before their time.”

His breathing starts to hitch and when he speaks again his voice is low and urgent.

“Back to the _Morrigan_! I must get back to the _Morrigan_!”

A washcloth and basin sit on the nightstand next to the uneaten apple. After soaking and wringing it, I place the folded washcloth on his forehead. He isn’t warm but I hope its coolness will help dispel these dark thoughts.

“You’re safe, Shay. Sleep now.”

He shakes his head slightly but seems calmer.

“I’m so sorry, Master Kenway.”

After hesitating a moment, I lay a hand on the dark hair and gradually he falls back into peaceful sleep.

I wonder it has taken me this long to understand. Just a couple of weeks have passed since Hope’s death and now November approaches carrying Shay’s lot of painful anniversaries. No small wonder he’s been distracted these days. He may make his own luck but Fate has been cruel to him.

To make matters worse he's now injured and reduced to bed rest with nothing to distract him, more often than not plunged in sleep or half-sleep by the sedatives and so helpless to resist his unconscious thoughts. I make a mental note to decrease sedation. Physical pain cannot hurt him as much as this.

Not only have I been careless with his body, I’ve been careless with his mind too. How much longer can his mind bear this strain? Shay will only find peace when he has fulfilled his promise to the Monro by retrieving the Manuscript and the price for Monro’s death must be paid in blood. Again I see George’s spectre between us.

I realise I cannot break this bond. That I _must not_  break it. The one thing that can turn Shay away from me is my threatening his memory of George Monro. But I need him to take up just a little less space in Shay’s heart so that I too may find my place.

George Monro gave his ring to Shay but bequeathed Shay to me. I am the One, the Grand Master he mustn't disappoint. Yet I wonder, would he avenge my death with the same determination?

I stay by his side through the night, watching over his slumbers, penance for my carelessness.


	8. 07 | Kenway House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Templars meet at the mansion they took over from Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, *SPOILERS* and possible discrepancies, especially with the books.

_***Kenway House, East Village, New York, November 1759*** _

 

Looking out at the gardens from one of the Mansion’s terraces I see Shay and his group sitting around a fountain. We’ve just wrapped up a long day of talks and now Gist is teaching Weeks and Hickey _The Leaving of Liverpool_ , which he already taught the crew back at the Fort after hearing it in a tavern down near the Waterfront.

Even after all this time I’m a little surprised by the camaraderie that binds our junior members. They’re forever giving each other a hand up, or thumping each other on the shoulder, or talking conspirationally. I know they refer to me as 'the boss' when they think I'm out of earshot - an irreverent tradition started by Shay, naturally - and revel in their common role as my underlings the way my schoolmates and I once did, jesting about an idiosyncratic but paternal headmaster at an expensive school. I haven't caught them at it yet but I've half an idea they sometimes imitate me. It is on the strength of this shared bond with me that they've so quickly adopted Thomas Hickey, who now jostles and rib-jabs with the best of them.

Do they still remember that Shay first saw Jack Weeks at Lawrence Washington’s soirée the night he was killed? And that of the four Templars present then, Weeks is the only one Shay didn’t subsequently kill? William Johnson likes Shay personally but holds back from accepting him completely because he has not forgotten that he was in Albany, just a short distance away, the day of Wardrop’s death.

Johnson appears and motions Shay over and they’re soon strolling away, deep in conversation. Last night, over after-dinner drinks, I mentioned to Johnson that Shay was gifted an armour set by the Oneida as thanks for his help and I'm sure Johnson is questioning him about it now. A close tie with the natives may be enough to finish charming Johnson who's already largely been swayed by the humble deference Shay shows all his superiors within the Order.

The wind carries the sound of their voices to me, though not well enough that I can make out the words. Shay has something of Monro's way of modulating his tone - strong and clear in public, quiet and confidential in private - but he hasn't fully acquired the knack so I suspect it is unconscious. Shay’s husky voice, with its lilting notes, always has charm but when he pitches it low like this it becomes quite irresistible, though I suspect he's unaware of that too.

Shay learns best by osmosis but I wonder if I should be actively teaching him to use his personal charisma as well as his intelligence and strength. He needs to learn to earn the trust and respect even of men he does not trust or respect or even like.

Such as Charles Lee. The two are as rigidly cordial with each other as they were when they first met. Charles is always polite but I know exactly what to think of any excess of civility in Shay. I hope that with time they'll warm to each other, which is more than I can say about Shay and Benjamin Church. They met for the first time yesterday and loathe each other on instinct. Church goads him, oafishly unaware that it is not out of respect for _his_  superior station that Shay does not retaliate, but in deference to _mine_. I expected no less from the snobbish Church and I cannot fault Shay for so disliking him - the man turns even my stomach and the day he ceases to be useful I will gladly rid the world of him.

I make my way out into the garden. Shay and Johnson are both wreathed in smiles but when he sees me and without waiting for a signal, Shay excuses himself and comes to me. Without a word we start wandering along a pergola towards the back of the property and away from the others.

“I’m glad you and William are getting along.”

“I’ve invited him down to Fort Arsenal after the meeting here and we’re thinking of making a trip up to Orenda together soon.”

“Good.”

I pretend to not see that he has something on his mind and instead tell him about the wisteria ‘Shiro Noda’ I’ve arranged to have brought in from Japan for the upper terraces.

We reach the bridge and as we lean over its side I take from my pocket a folded watercolour of the Indian lotuses I’ve asked the gardeners to install in the pond after the winter.

“They’re like waterlilies only the flowers don’t float on the water but above it and can be up to eight inches across. The leaves can be as many as two feet in diameter — I'm told a small child can sit on one and stay afloat. We've estimated that just three plants will be enough to fill the pond.”

Shay stares at the pond, wide-eyed as a child and I can almost believe he sees it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Are they not marvellous? The seeds can lie dormant for years until the conditions are right then the plant takes root in the dirt and scum and grows upward over four feet so that the flower may bloom free and clear of the mud and murk.”

I pull out one of the seeds, no larger than an acorn, to show him.

“Look, here is one of the seeds we’re growing them from. The gardeners use sandpaper to file away some of the hard shell, then let it soak for a week. Once the shell is softened they make an incision in it. It seems brutal but it is from that cut that the water and nutrients reach the seedling inside and that it makes its way out, eventually shedding its cramped, dull shell.”

I drop the seed into Shay’s hand and he stares at it.

“The Confucian Zhou Dunyi once wrote: I love the lotus for even though it grows from mud it is unstained.”

Shay is trying very hard to keep his emotions in check but the boy has no kind of poker face at all.

“That one’s for you, Shay.”

He turns the hard seed over and over in his hand before finally placing it in his inside pocket.

We both lean over the side of the bridge again, looking out through the watergate to the lake beyond in silence.

“Sir, I… I was wondering if you stayed up with me one night while I was injured, at Fort Arsenal.”

Ah. I’d wondered if he’d ever realise it wasn’t a dream.

“It was nothing.”

“Well, I wanted to thank you, sir. You shouldn't have troubled yourself.”

“I didn’t perform a healing miracle, Shay, I simply placed a wet towel on your forehead.”

“All the same I… thank you.”

He’s struggling to say more but after I glance at him we fall back into companionable silence.

This is my reward for the toil that is this meeting and the running of this Rite more generally. Being with Shay is as restful as sleep. More restful, in fact, since my slumbers are not always peaceful either. Yet something troubles me.

Monro knew of Shay’s identity as an Assassin from moment he laid eyes on him and saved him in the hope that his knowledge and Manuscript would become of use to our order - which they did. Shay must have been aware of Monro’s identity as a Templar from the first glance. Throwing his lot in with us allowed him to follow his own agenda - stopping Achilles from ever finding another Precursor site - with our not inconsiderable means and aid at his disposal.

Are we still using each other? Once the Box has been recovered will I still have a use for him? Will he still have a use for us? Do his beliefs in our tenets run deep enough that I can be sure he will not go rogue and betray _us_  this time? Can he be trusted?

I glance at Shay whose face is warmed by the glow of the weak winter sunset and remember I’m being unjust. When Shay woke his reasons for helping Monro had nothing to do with the Manuscript, which he believed was at the bottom of the Atlantic.

When Shay’s inquisitive gaze turns to me I realise I am clearing my throat unconsciously.

I thought I had removed the knife of betrayal Reginald Birch stabbed me with but a piece of the blade must have broken off. Sometimes I feel the shard shift deep inside me when I move. And sometimes I look at Shay and have to make a concerted effort to remind myself that I have never deceived him. Yes, I have shielded him from certain truths, to protect him or to avoid adding to the burden he already bears, but not once have I lied to him. I am careful not to. I can hurt Shay in ways that I could never hurt any of the others because he questions everything - except me. He needs something - just one thing- that he can believe in wholeheartedly and I am it. His trust is a precious thing, a heavy and delicate burden. And I would hate to think of Shay feeling as betrayed by me as I was by Reginald.

“Come, Shay. Let us join the others.”


	9. 08 | Chevalier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham joins Shay on the Morrigan after Chevalier's death, and as they close in on Achilles and Liam he starts planning ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

**_*The Morrigan, the Far North, North Atlantic, March 1760*_ **

 

I have just finished checking all my things have been brought over from the ship that carried me here and are safely stowed in the captain’s cabin when Shay joins me, having given his orders for our departure.

“Show me.”

He goes over to the map and points to a place so far north it almost falls off the edge and is miles from anywhere with a name.

“Can we catch up to them?”

“Their ship can’t be faster than the _Morrigan_. And the wind’s with us.”

“Good.”

He nods. As he reaches the door I call to him again.

“Shay, I would be grateful if you would join me for dinner. And please send me Gist as soon as you can spare him.”

He nods again and leaves.

So here I am, back on the _Morrigan_  - or the _Phantom Queen_ , as she’s also known. This cabin is starting to feel like a second home, with everything in its proper place. A model of the _Morrigan_ , which Shay studies and uses to visualise improvements for her, is set upon a small table not far from the two larboard guns sitting under yet another painting of a ship. Shay’s sea-chest is tucked away under a table and I know he’s packed his warm weather clothing away in it to free up some space.

I put my things in the drawer Shay has emptied for me, as always, and start arranging my papers on the desk he has cleared for me, as usual, and within minutes I’m brought the routine tea tray by one of the younger, slightly cowed, crew members.

I can hear Gist above, relaying Shay’s orders and I smile at the word ‘royals’. I have it from a reliable source in the Royal Navy that the _Morrigan_  never carries the particular set of sails referred to to as royals. I’m sorely tempted to go up to the weather deck now but I know that getting the ship under way is a delicate manoeuvre and that my presence makes the men nervous. James Cook once explained that a captain is king on his own ship and seeing their king bow to a mere landsman upsets the men’s sense of the natural order of things.

Recently, I’ve had to spend quite some time aboard various ships and I can say without partiality that the _Morrigan_  is the most comfortable and the most elegant, particularly now that garish yellow paint has been replaced with red. The small, low cabin is always kept warm and reasonably lit for me, Gist and Shay are always attentive to my needs and their voices drift down to me amid the general clamour of ship life, the creaking of weathered wood and the low roar of water, reminding me that I have only a few steps to make to reach the weather deck should I want fresh air or company.

How many hours have I spent on that deck? Not enough to develop a true taste for life at sea but long enough to respect it. I have deep admiration for Shay’s handling of the ship in the tortuous waters of the River Valley and his handling of the men, exposed to the perils of combat and the harsh conditions here in the North Atlantic. Any love I feel for this land is strengthened by having seen it at its best, in its wildest natural state, from the decks of the _Morrigan_  - from the River Valley’s generous, fertile south and gold-rich but inhospitable north to the savage, unearthly beauty surrounding us now, here in the furthest reaches of the North Atlantic.

I’ve seen Shay and his men go out in a ridiculous little boat to harpoon beasts up to a third as large as the _Morrigan_  herself. Shay knows all the best hunting spots and factors them into planning our resupply routes. And though Shay has never risked attacking a man’o’war while I’m on his ship, he’s boarded everything but without hesitation. He sometimes returns injured, usually not, but always looking pleased with himself and talking cheerfully and loudly, temporarily deafened by the cannonfire.

I’ve witnessed those canons being fired and heard the way the sound of the shot cracks through the air, seeming to bend space itself, and felt it pass like a hard wave through my body before it sucked the very air out of the atmosphere. And it was on the deck of the _Morrigan_  that I first experienced the pure exhilaration of speed and there too that I’m learning to distinguish one type of ship from another at a glance.

I wonder if this is my last trip aboard the _Morrigan_. If all goes well and we retrieve the Manuscript and Box, I’ll be focussing my energies on Boston and New York, probably remaining largely land-based.

Gist comes down and recounts how Shay charmed James Cook first into revealing where de la Verendrye was headed, despite admiring the explorer's work and being clear on Shay’s intentions; then into agreeing to help Shay chase down de la Verendrye by abandoning his own ship to sail on the _Morrigan_  so Shay might be spared the unconscionable inconvenience of waiting for him to draw up a map. Even without the ambush, Cook must have known he would be risking his life in battle. I should also have a word with Shay about his handing de la Vérandrye’s maps over to James Cook and assuring him of our backing, though in truth both ideas were genius.

Dinner arrives and I raise an eyebrow at the unusually lavish spread. Lobster bisque, duck confit on a bed of caramelised onions, glazed baby carrots and Brussel sprouts, crusty bread, chocolate mousse garnished with orange slices, and two apples. We’ve evidently held onto some of the _Gerfaut_ ’s rich stores, and possibly its cook.

Shay arrives and as he takes in the sight of the table his face lights up.

“How are you, Shay?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

I expect this answer just as he must have come to expect this ritual interrogation every time he kills one of his old comrades.

He's eating with gusto and I wonder whether this is solely due to the exceptional quality of the food or whether he’s also celebrating something. During his debrief, Gist mentioned there was no love lost between Shay and Louis-Joseph Gautier, Chevalier de la Verandrye, even claiming that Shay referred to him as a ‘cantankerous bastard’. I suddenly wonder what he calls Benjamin Church in the privacy of his own mind but of course to ask would be undignified.

“The food is exceptional tonight, Shay.”

“We took away all we could carry from the _Gerfaut_ , including Chevalier’s steward.”

“I see. So your fare is to be permanently upgraded?”

“Don’t know if the steward will be happy making do with our usual provisions. And I don’t think he likes me much - I did kill his old boss. And our cook’s already picking fights with him.”

“Shall I take him off your hands when we reach New York? I could use a cook of this calibre at the mansion.”

“Aye, that’s a good idea. He’ll like that.”

Having settled these domestic matters, I move onto business.

“I hear Captain Cook dropped everything to help you find de la Vérandrye.”

“Aye, he did! Likes a bit of excitement, does the Captain.”

Shay laughs then sobers a little.

“Still, I suppose I owe him one now.”

“Oh, I expect the maps you gave him are compensation enough.”

Now he looks downright contrite.

“No, no, you were quite right to. As you see, he's a precious asset to have on one's side and he seems determined to side with you against whomever you choose, whatever the odds.”

“It’s not personal. He thinks we’re underAdmiralty orders. And he likes the _Morrigan_  - says if he ever has his pick he’ll get a sloop-of-war just like her.”

Shay spears a Brussel sprout with his knife, eyes it curiously before taking a cautious bite.

“Mmm. All the same, he was evidently the right person to go to.”

I take a sip of wine before continuing nonchalantly.

“No problems with de la Verendrye then?”

“None.”

He chews thoughtfully.

“He took it better than I expected. He _hated_  me but he seemed almost pleased at the end. I feel like he might still have a trick up his sleeve.”

“Even dead?”

“The only thing that ever made Chevalier happy was making me miserable.”

“Did you really dislike each other that much, Shay?”

“He used to call me ‘the cabbage farmer’.”

What…?

“I got the _Morrigan_  because he didn’t want her.”

He’s instantly cheered, as he always is, by the thought of his ship.

He lingers a little after finishing his chocolate mousse, still in high spirits, before finally running up to reclaim the wheel of his beloved _Morrigan_.

I lean back in my chair, stretching out my legs, and as I do so my gaze latches onto one of the Templar flags hanging from the rafters. The cabin is filled with them, as are Shay’s quarters at Fort Arsenal, and if memory serves there’s a Templar cross on the ship’s figurehead too.

I am determined to put an end to this skirmish with the Assassins over the Box and Manuscript and these flags in Shay’s cabin remind me I have yet to decide what to do with Shay going forward. His past as an Assassin, the mobility this ship gives him, his experience and knowledge of Precursor technology, they all made him the best choice for this task but once it’s done, what should his place in our Order be? What _can_  it be?

As the time nears, I find I am fully prepared to put these Precursor sites behind me, and with them Reginald Birch. I was never as invested in them as he was and to keep this artefacts safe and out of reach of the Assassins is enough for me - I want nothing more from them but that they should do no harm. Once I no longer have to spend my time chasing after them I can devote myself to the Order’s real business: that of bring lasting order and prosperity to the Colonies.

And Shay in all this? He’s a man of action, a tactical assassin, and I will still have need of one in the short term but I must plan for a future in which I’ll need men in position of power in the military, such as Charles Lee; men with political power and vision, like William Johnson; or of social influence, like Benjamin Church.

I cannot have Shay in Boston near Charles and Church but can I leave him in charge in New York or will that put yet another target on his back? Will I always need an assassin to do my bidding or should I turn Shay into something else? He could become anything with the proper training, I have only to decide what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I'm pretty sure the Morrigan doesn't have royals. The Jackdaw and Experto Crede did and the script was likely left unchanged. 
> 
> Fun Fact: The Vancouver Maritime Museum has a model of HMS Discovery, the smallest of James Cook's exploration ships, and it is shown with yellow paint along the hull and reddish sails. Hmm... 
> 
> Fun Fact: I snort every time I hear James Cook tell Gist he hasn't gone further south than Nantucket.


	10. 09 | Liam & Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final showdown with Liam and Achilles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS* for the game.

_***The Morrigan, the Far North, North Atlantic, March 1760*** _

 

“Master Gist, stay here. I shall accompany Shay.”

As I say this I recognise that I have well and truly lost the habit of calling him ‘Master Cormac’ - if indeed I ever acquired it.

We run along the ice, hopping from ice flow to ice flow, scaring off a huddle of Great Auks on our way.

“This would be b-beautiful if it wasn’t so damned cold.”

Despite the cold and the danger I feel my chest expand and my whole being feels warm and light.

“Tread carefully… Some of this ice is rather thin...”

What are we saying?

As we reach a high ridge, we see Achilles’ sprawling camp below and a narwhal breaches close to their decidedly ratty-looking ship. I suppose it’s the best they can do now they’ve lost the _Gerfaut_  and several other ships to Shay.

“That’s a hefty crew Achilles brought.”

“I doubt he expects all of them to survive these conditions.”

“That’s bleak. But we’re still outnumbered. Let’s keep a low profile, avoid unnecessary fights.”

Ah, ever the merciful killer.

“Your Assassins would scarce recognise you. Come, let us enter their parlour.”

I sound flippant but the truth is I’m elated by this feeling of freedom. Just my shadow and I gliding over the snow. Adélawé called Shay my hunting dog, which is absurd - being with Shay is like hunting with eagles.

I make the first kill and he soon joins me. I know he’d intended to pass by unseen but in his fit of humanist enthusiasm the child may have forgotten that we might not be leaving as stealthily as we’ve arrived.

I find a vantage point ahead and watch Shay dispatch a few guards as he heads into the next section of the camp. He glances up at my position, searching for the marksman who would have been his next target if he weren’t already laying dead at my feet.

Once the camp is cleared Shay precedes me up a ladder and over an ice bridge that promptly shatters.

“Go on, Shay! I’ll find another way.”

Somehow I _know_  this. This is just a flying step, both my feet have left the ground for a moment but when they touch ground again my shadow will be there.

He nods and keeps going. I have to backtrack all the way out of the camp before I find another, better hidden entrance. There are no guards here as I suspect there are along Shay’s route and I quickly make my way forward.

Eventually the ice gives way to something else. Walls that seem made of granite but seamless and smoother than anything I’ve ever seen, with edges so sharp they look like they were cut from the rock walls this very morning by the power of thought rather than any tool known to man. And embedded in them are mysterious glowing glyphs, some of which I recognise from my amulet, pulsating with a mysterious and chilling power. The very air vibrates with energy.

My instinct is to stop, observe, and make as detailed a mental record as I can, but I push onward, aware of the risk and the stakes. I do not understand what surrounds us but I can feel the immense power behind it and can suddenly start to conceive just what it could unleash. At the chill that runs through me I realise some tiny part of me disbelieved Shay’s story of the earthquake. No longer.

I notice Shay advancing on a high path on the other side of this enormous hall and soon we’re on common ground again.

Shay seems unfazed by our surroundings and precedes me without a word so I follow him at my leisure, looking around this fantastic cavern.

After my arrival in the Colonies I spent four fruitless years searching for such a site. The closest I came was that cave Ziio took me to - Ziio, not Johnson, though he’s our resident expert on the Mohawk people. Then Shay was dropped in my lap and not two years later here we are.

We soon hear Achilles' voice.

“Shay was right.”

“What would _he_  know?”

The accent betrays this as being Liam O'Brien and even I am taken aback by the savage loathing and scathing disdain in his tone.

“More than me, apparently.”

“Finally, you understand, Achilles. This is a structure to hold the world together, not a weapon to control it. This whole calamity could have been avoided if you’d only listened to me!”

The two Assassins turn to us and I must say that for someone who has just admitted to being so disastrously wrong, Achilles still looks quite smug.

“Disrespectful until the end.”

“Yes, we've been working on that...”

I say this with a straight face despite being perfectly aware that I, for one, have been doing no such thing.

“Right or wrong, Shay, you betrayed the Brotherhood, Achilles, and me.”

Really, Liam? Right or wrong? What _does_  Achilles expect from these boys? Blind obedience? If so, he was doomed from the start with Shay.

“Says the man who shot me in the back!”

“At the Homestead? That was Chevalier.”

O'Brien sounds amused and my dislike for him deepens.

“I don't miss!”

“Liam, don’t!”

As O’Brien pulls out his gun to shoot, Achilles tries to stop him.

In the scuffle the Piece of Eden is knocked from its pedestal and we all feel the energy instantly drain out of the atmosphere and the entire structure starts to crumble. I immediately follow Achilles up one pathway, trusting that this is just another running step as I see Shay sprint up the other, a few paces behind Liam.

As I chase after Achilles Davenport I hear Shay’s words with Liam reverberating off the icy walls, almost drowned out by the sound of cracking ice as everything crashes down around us.

“Did you have to bring that damned Manuscript and Box all the way out here, Liam?”

“The Precursor Box is safe, Shay. Chevalier took care of that. You’ll never find it!”

I hear gunshots and wonder that O'Brien takes the time to stop and aim. I myself have no plans to stop running until I can see the sky above and solid ground below me again.

“I found Hope's body, Shay!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Did you kill her? Tell me!”

“I had to!”

“No…! You _chose_  to!”

In this place in the arctic, in subzero temperatures, buried under tens of meters of snow and ice, it is the anguish in Shay’s hoarse voice that causes my blood to run cold. He is out of sight but I feel something breaking deep inside him and understand that he is not apologising for killing Hope - in his mind he has already killed Liam.

Betrayal has paid for betrayal and now death must pay for death. Shay has existed as long as he can in a world with George Monro's killer still in it.

Achilles and I are soon out in the open again and he turns on me, sword in hand. We fight but I think both are minds are on our respective favourites, waiting to see if they make it out of the cavern.

We can hear them and positioned as I am I can see them on a high ridge until it collapses with a thunderous crack.

Thrown off guard, Achilles doesn't focus as he should and I soon have him at a disadvantage. I see Shay emerge and, my mind at rest, I prepare to permanently rid the world of Achilles Davenport.

“No!”

Shay tries to throw himself between Achilles and I.

“Why not?!”

“Achilles is harmless now, a Mentor with no followers. What kind of world are we making if we cannot show mercy?”

I look into Shay’s pleading eyes and my anger cools. He’s right. I can afford to be magnanimous here, just as Achilles could have been towards Shay but wasn’t.

“Besides, he understands what these Precursor sites are now. Without him the Assassins may continue their search.”

Very true.

“Valid points.”

I sheathe my sword and start to walk away then think better of it, turn and shoot Achilles in the right shin. Just in case I ever have to chase after him again.

“Never forget what has happened here.”

“I won’t… But the world will.”

Shay glances at me worriedly as I resist the urge to fire at Achilles’ other leg then we make our way back to the _Morrigan_.

Shay was right. Sparing Achilles was the right choice. I only hope I do not live to regret this decision.

“So what happens now?”

Shay is leaning against the side of the ship, having uncharacteristically left overseeing the complicated preparations for our departure to Gist. His voice is clear and strong but I can see he’s still slightly hunched over, no doubt from the pain.

“Master Gist will be in charge of eradicating any remaining traces of the Assassins. Master Weeks and the others will assist him, of course.”

“Achilles has lost everything. He won’t dare leave his homestead.”

“He won’t.”

A pause. I pace slowly as Shay leans over the side of the ship, turning away from me, turning his back on Grand Master Templar Haytham Kenway. Is he dealing with the shock of Liam’s death? Is he upset at my shooting Achilles? Is he disappointed that he won’t be working with Gist and the others? Does he think I no longer have any use for him?

“Shay, although our search for Precursor sites is at an end, I want that Box. You will find it for the Templar Order.”

I pause.

His promise to the Colonel is fulfilled and so is his vengeance. This is where I step in.

“And for me.”

It’s a tall order. It likely means leaving Gist and Weeks, the Finnegans, New York, Fort Arsenal and the _Morrigan_ , and me.

He’s still hunched over the side of the ship, but I see his head turn slightly.

“It could be anywhere in the world by now… It might take years to find it.”

Still afraid to disappoint me.

“It might take your lifetime. Are you up for the challenge?”

He doesn’t speak, just nods once before turning back to the Atlantic.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: That narwhal is always there though you may have to stand towards the left on the ice ledge to see it.


	11. 10 | Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Liam and Achilles out of the way, Haytham still has one final request of Shay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS*? I dunno, maybe if you haven't finished the game and start with this chapter.

_***The Morrigan, North Atlantic, 1760*** _

 

Dinner for two is brought to the captain’s cabin while I wait for Shay to return from the sick bay. Nobody asked me one way or the other but I suppose Shay and I dining together after this sort of outing has become something of a tradition. I doubt Shay will want food any more than I do but I know better than to say anything. The men have been looking resentful. No doubt they wonder why their captain looks like he hasn't a sound bone left in his body whereas I only had to knock the snow off my boots to become my usual self again. 

The snug little cabin is warm so I take off my hat and coat and even my boots. I just want to be myself, without all my Grand Master trappings. 

Shay limps in and when he sees the food he turns vaguely green. 

I sit on the wooden chair and while he painstakingly settles into the upholstered one I pour him some water and colour it with two splashes of wine. 

“I’m sorry. I should have given you time with Achilles. You must have questions for him.” 

He shakes his head, absently eyeing the wineglass in his hand. 

“I did but… not anymore. None of it matters anymore.” 

This time I do not ask him how he feels. The answer is written all over his downcast face. It’s in the way he holds his battered body, the way he drags his injured leg, the weary slope of his shoulders, the tremor in his hands, the lowered gaze that has not truly met mine since he begged me to spare Achilles’ life. 

I watched what happened over Achilles’ shoulder. In fact, it was his moment of greater distraction when that ice came crashing down that allowed me to gain the upper hand for good. Shay did not kill Liam. Perhaps the intent was there but I saw his blade miss. That fall killed Liam O’Brian. 

I am relieved Shay did not have to kill O’Brian with his own hands. Hope Jensen’s death took a toll on him and taking the life of his childhood friend, a Brother, would have been a terrible thing to live with. But I know Shay now wonders whether this hollow feeling, this continued ache, is due to that, to his _not_  having killed Liam and having thus left his vengeance incomplete. I know it is not. 

Revenge is an empty thing. 

I should know. Reginald Birch is dead but I still feel the cut of betrayal within me. I will always feel it. His existence no longer rankles but his disappearance has not healed the wound. 

Shay has always known that killing his old brothers would not bring George Monro back. We all realise this on a conscious level. Even knowing that it was the right thing to do or that it was the only choice or that they deserved it is all meagre consolation. George Monro is still dead. The net balance of the last five years of his life is just one great loss compounded by a series of smaller ones. 

His expression is one of bewilderment and frustration and I wonder if Haytham Kenway’s face wears a similar one behind the Grand Master mask that covers it - I haven’t looked. 

Shay shifts constantly in his chair. 

“You might be more comfortable on the bed. And I want to have a look at your injuries.” 

“The doctor says I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he did. All the same, if you please.” 

He starts shrugging off his coat as he walks to the bunk, wincing. I stand and help him. 

“Your ribs again?” 

He nods. 

“And your ankle?” 

“Just a sprain.” 

The outer coat comes off, then the red inner layer, and I find that blood from his wounds has already seeped through the fresh dressings, his shirt and the buff waistcoat. 

He sits down on the edge of the bunk and I pull off his shirt and peel off the bandages to check his ribs. Even though I’m right in front of him he does not look at me, staring instead at a carpet arabesque near my right foot. 

Shay realised very early on that I can read him like an open book and has accepted it with philosophy. But he’s struggling with it tonight.

There are bruises and scrapes all along his arms and his sides. The old scar on his chest has healed away to a jagged white line that marks the deeper wound beneath. His breathing hitches in pain as my fingertips find the familiar bumps along his ribs where the bones have broken and healed so many times, running like a fault line over his heart. Yes, cracked again. 

I move and sit behind him. 

His entire back is deeply bruised, the skin broken and bleeding in places along a diagonal that marks where he landed on his slung rifle. 

I pull a vial out of my pocket. It holds a wonderful ointment that I use for my own bumps and scrapes and that I regularly strong-arm Benjamin Church into making for me - for free. I feel a tiny jolt of perverse pleasure at the idea of using it on Shay whom Church loathes. 

I am not a gentle man but I try my best as I warm some of the ointment in my hand before carefully rubbing it over his back. I feel his body tense beneath my palms, the only sign that he’s in pain. 

Gradually he relaxes. I look over the scars on his back, some newer than others. And there, under his right shoulder-blade, a small white star. The mark of Liam’s bullet. Shay’s past is carved into his body. 

I trace over the small scar with my thumb and Shay turns his head slightly. 

“You’re sending me away.” 

There is resignation and perhaps even a little discouragement in the low voice. 

Shay is no longer the man he was on deck when he agreed to search for the Box. He was expecting an adrenalin rush or at least a sense of relief or accomplishment but there was none of that. The adrenalin rush is what has kept him going these past three years and it has finally died out, leaving him empty. And as he looked around at the wreckage of his life for something to cling to he saw me and it suddenly dawned on him that he has already agreed to leave me. 

I rub some ointment over his arms and particularly over his shredded elbows. 

“Do you know what your name means, Shay?” 

He turns away and when he speaks again he sounds detached. 

“I read somewhere that it comes from an old gaelic word for ‘hawk’.” 

“And do you know what my name means?” 

“No.” 

“It is a transliteration of an Arabic word for ‘eagle’.” 

I place the vial on the table and go over to where Shay keeps his personal stock of bandages. When I return Shay has turned to face me and finally seeks out my gaze, his dark eyes clear and searching. 

I bandage him up as best I can - I have no experience caring for others and make no particular efforts for myself. The powerful haemostatic agent in the ointment has done its work and blood barely stains the gauze. I take care to make the bandage as tight as possible, remembering it will help support his ribs. 

Shay is his usual docile self again, patient and uncomplaining though I’m sure my clumsy ministrations are more hurtful than helpful at the moment. 

When I’ve dropped his shirt back over his head I glance at the table. 

“Can you manage some food?” 

His face creases into a pained expression. 

“What is there?” 

I glance at our plates. Mushroom cream soup, roasted hare with rosemary, wild rice garnished with lemon slices, something that looks suspiciously like lichen, and two apples. Apparently the _Gerfaut_ ’s supplies are starting to run low. 

After a few mouthfuls of soup, rabbit and rice, he lays down and though it takes him a long time to find a bearable position he finally drifts off into sleep. I carefully pile the blankets and the black wolfskin throw onto him then settle down at the desk, determined to watch for any nightmares. 

While I work, I pick at my dinner and finish with one of the apples. I wonder what mythical power attributed to this fruit can explain why, after all this time, we’re still always brought _two_  apples with each meal. Shay lost his taste for apples years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Whenever I think of the haemostatic agent in that ointment I'm reminded that medicine at the time was a lot of balancing of humours - how any of them would have survived is a mystery. 
> 
> Fun Fact: In-game, there are at least two cutscenes in which Shay can be seen to take a bite out of an apple then tossing it.


	12. E | Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haytham's closing remarks and his reason for not including Shay in his diary (well, he must have had a reason, mustn't he?).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Enjoy!

_***The Morrigan, North Atlantic, 1760*** _

 

I sign a letter to my correspondent in Paris then glance up at the bed, almost within arm’s reach, where Shay is sleeping soundly.

  
He is twenty-nine years old, the same age I was when I first arrived in the Colonies to become Grand Master. He looks simultaneously younger and older. He's more scarred than I was, physically and mentally, and yet more innocent than I remember ever having been. 

He sleeps in the captain’s cabin with me now. I refuse to have him sleep in a hammock in the state he is in and he would not have me lodged anywhere but in the best berth on the ship so in the end we agreed to share the cabin. I sleep very little and he sleeps in shifts, like the rest of the crew, so it has proved easier than expected. 

The men have taken it in their stride but then they’ve never made a secret of the fact they don’t understand why their beloved captain must give up his cabin for me whenever I’m on board ship. Shay still plays his role as captain but we’re all aware that because of his injuries he won’t be taking the wheel for some time and needs to spend most of time resting. The cuts and bruises are healing nicely, thanks to Benjamin Church’s involuntary contribution, but I intend for those ribs to heal completely this time. 

There is regret in me at having to send him away before my work is done. He's come a long way since I took him under my wing two years ago but I still have so much to teach him. Shay wasn't groomed for it as I was but I think he has the potential to become a Grand Master like me. In many ways his understanding of our Order's principles and aims runs deeper than it does in the others — the result of his beliefs and moral standards having been so severely tested, tempered by the fires of Lisbon and Albany and the arctic winds and gelid waters of the North Atlantic. 

Charles Lee is my righthand man and may one day become my successor - I’ve been preparing him for just such an eventuality. He’s so eager to be taught, to emulate and obey me in every possible way, that I think he can be moulded into what he needs to become though I still don’t know how he would behave if he were ever truly tested - not tested in a moment’s courage or hardship, but by years and decades of petty annoyances and obstacles or some great trial of conscience. Would he be able to hold onto his humanity as Shay has and as I seek to do? 

The others cannot take my place. Johnson has his own convictions, his own pursuits. These make him invaluable to our Order but he already has his hands full without the obligations and responsibilities of running the Rite. No, he’s of more use to us doing what he’s doing. Pitcairn is an independent, a man of the shadows, not a natural leader. He sees _how_  to do things, but lacks the broader vision to see _what_  must be done. Benjamin Church is utterly soulless and I would sooner dissolve the Rite than leave it in his hands - used only for his personal advancement and gain. Thomas Hickey is a useful but blunt tool, even with training and education he could never become what he must be. Shay must be my living legacy, should anything happen to Charles and I. 

Shay comes down to the cabin several times a day to consult his charts and have his soul soothed by my presence. The wounds that have festered for five long years are finally starting to heal and he knows I am the balm to quicken the process. 

He can talk about Monro now. George’s death still pains him but it’s no longer the soul-rending ache it was. Or perhaps it is simply that the sensitive nerve-endings of his soul, tormented for so long, have finally died and can no longer sense pain as keenly as they once would, like skin after a severe burn or through a callus. 

He tells me about his past, sometimes seeming himself surprised that such an odd catalogue of events should all belong in the same short life. I see flashes of the person he used to be - the delinquent, the lady’s man, the dilettante - the person Achilles and Liam knew and who died falling from that cliff. Or perhaps killed by Liam's bullet. Or crushed under a building in Lisbon. 

At night, after the men have put away their flutes and fiddles and songs, when the _Morrigan_  sails an endless sea so quiet we can hear whale calls echo about us, he asks about my past and I tell him the simple facts. As I speak I often see that haunted look again and I know that he sees all the choices and decisions that cement these facts together. His own past is similar. It's made up of odd, ill-fitting pieces, which is why the cement must hold all the better if the structure is to stand. 

His conviction and sense of purpose grow daily. I am making him stronger so that he will not spend the long years ahead plagued by doubt without me there to assuage them as I’ve done thus far. The hawk must learn to fly alone, out of the eagle’s shadow. 

I have never written a word about Shay Patrick Cormac in my diary or elsewhere. His induction is mentioned in the Order’s records, of course, but I myself have made no note of it. 

When we get back to New York I will hide Monro’s letters concerning him. Or destroy them, if I can bring myself to do it. 

Liam, Hope and the others are dead. Achilles Davenport will hide away in his homestead to lick his wounds and besides, the Shay he knew has not existed for years.

People may and probably will find out about Shay from others, but they will discover nothing from me. 

Shay is immeasurably valuable and this is all I can do to keep him safe. This and to send him away, to chase after the Precursor Box so that he’ll be away from here, always on the move, difficult to target. 

It is a miracle Shay survived the fall that killed Liam and I intend for him not to lose another one of his lives on my watch. I have learnt from my mistakes. With Liam O’Brien dead and Achilles crippled, Shay will be in even greater danger than he was after Hope Jensen’s death. It will be too dangerous for him to stay in New York - no, in the Colonies. 

Perhaps, once our hold here in the colonies is firmer, it will be safe enough for him to return. 

But until then we must take a leap of faith, my shadow and I, and I hope we both soar until we meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I don't think we ever see a fiddle on the Morrigan. Ever.


End file.
